Wicked (9 page)

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Hunter, I swear, I should be deeply, deeply offended. Indeed, if I were a fine young lady, raised to the best finishing schools, I think I should be required to slap you quite hard. But I’m afraid I lost my parents at far too early an age to have attended such a school, and as a mere commoner with an incredible thirst for knowledge, I believe I’m allowed to refrain from violence!”

“You’re laughing at me, and I’m sincere.”

“Oh, Hunter, this is terribly sweet of you. But, no, I’d never marry you—not that you aren’t handsome and charming and so kind to even make such a suggestion.”

“Am I not in the least seductive?” he demanded.

“Far too seductive, and truly kind with your proposal. Which I know you can’t really mean.” When he started to protest, she raised a hand to stop him and continued. “Please, Hunter! I don’t want you to believe that you’ve made an offer, and that, by honor, you can’t renege. Seriously, I do know that you would wind up despising me. And in the same vein the Earl of Carlyle cannot seduce me, because I do have one of those qualities you afforded me—intelligence. I’ll be fine. I’m staying at the castle until I can safely move my guardian. I will attend the fund-raiser because I believe that he feels he can enter such a gathering, masked as he must be due to his scars, quite safely with a museum employee at his side. We will be here, Hunter, right here in the museum, and I will be surrounded by you, Alex and Sir John. And Lord Wimbly, of course, a protector of equal peerage.”

The door opened again before Hunter could reply.

“Camille! I just heard that—” Alex Mittleman began. He stopped abruptly, seeing that she already had company in the small workroom. “Hunter,” he said.

“Alex.”

Alex, a slighter man and appearing more so since his hair was flaxen and his eyes were powder blue, coloring that gave him the appearance more of a handsome youth than of a mature man, flashed a frown in Camille’s direction. The two men usually respected one another, though Alex complained often enough that Hunter was too much a rich dandy and not nearly enough a true scholar. Alex also considered himself a far more appropriate confidant for Camille, since he was more of an honest workingman. Just as she was an honest workingwoman.

Alex cleared his throat, then gave his head a little shake, as if deciding he might as well speak, since Hunter was apparently aware of the subject he meant to bring up. Hunter beat him to it.

“You arrived here this morning with Brian Stirling, the
Earl of Carlyle?”

She sighed softly. “Tristan had an accident last night near the earl’s gates. He was taken into the castle because he was injured. As it happens, he was shaken and bruised, yet suffered no worse trauma. Naturally, I went to his side. And so…well, there it is.”

Both men stared at her, then at one another.

“Have you told her that he’s…”

“A dangerous man and perhaps not fully sane,” Hunter finished. “Not so bluntly until this exact minute, but, yes, I’ve tried to get that across.”

“Camille, you really must be very careful around him,” Alex said, still frowning. He looked very worried. “I’m rather shocked to say that Sir John is…well, frankly, pleased!”

“The Earl of Carlyle is a wealthy man,” Hunter said harshly. “His grounds abound with treasures Sir John would love to see in the museum.”

Alex swallowed suddenly. “I will go with you, Camille. I will go with you when the workday is over. We can hire a carriage and get your guardian home safely—”

“Alex, I certainly am better fixed to arrange a carriage, since I do have my own,” Hunter interrupted firmly. “But you are right. We must get Camille and her guardian home quickly and safely, and away from that dreadful castle.”

She watched the two of them, amazed. It wasn’t that they hadn’t shown her kindness or friendship before, but now they were truly vying for her attention. And both seemed most eager to get her away from Carlyle Castle.

Alex lifted his chin slightly, as if willing to be self-sacrificing for her greater good. “Fine. Hunter has his own carriage. However you are rescued from that dastardly place will suffice, as long as you are rescued.”

“Alex, Hunter,” she said softly, but before she could continue, the door burst open again.

Aubrey Sizemore had arrived. He was the last of the division’s main employees, a man who was not quite so knowledgeable, yet, despite his lack of education on the subject, passionate about Egyptology, and he was certainly hardworking and determined. He was a large fellow of perhaps thirtysomething years, bald as a billiard ball and well muscled. He could easily move the heaviest boxes, yet had an incredibly gentle touch when it came to the finer and more delicate parts of excavation.

He stared at Camille as though she were an artifact that had suddenly proven to be the most bizarre find of the century.

“You came here with the Earl of Carlyle?” he demanded.

She sighed, weary of explaining, and said simply, “Yes.”

“So he’s out of the castle again!”

“Yes, so it seems.”

“Well!” he said. “Well, good. We should have a great deal more money pouring in if he has come to acceptance. Indeed! He could plan a new excavation. There is nothing like real work, you know, in the desert sands.”

“He isn’t planning any expeditions as of yet,” Hunter said sharply.

“But…” Aubrey murmured, watching Camille.

“Is there something else you wanted, Aubrey?” Hunter asked.

Aubrey scowled. “That old fellow, the stooped gray-beard we just acquired from Asian Antiquities. Have you seen him?”

They all looked at him blankly. “That fellow. He’s been working for us now a few hours here and there. Arboc, that’s his name! Old Jim Arboc, have you seen him?”

“No, we haven’t seen him,” Hunter said irritably. He didn’t like Aubrey, but Aubrey had all the right assets to work in the department—raw muscle definitely being one of them.

“I’ve told Sir John time and time again that we must have a fellow in full time!” Aubrey said. “I don’t mind the labor, it’s the sweeping up that must be done. It’s time-consuming!”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t waste so much time,” Hunter suggested.

Aubrey almost growled in his direction, but smiled at Camille. “Excellent work, Camille, bringing back such an illustrious patron! Even if he has acquired something of an evil reputation. Perhaps the fellow is cursed.” He winked at her, then went on out.

As he did so, Sir John arrived. “Whatever is going on in here?” he demanded, a rough, impatient note in his voice. “Alex, I believe that Camille is quite capable of working on this relief herself. Hunter, you may be a board
member, but your role is not to take up the time of my employees. Lord Wimbly is on his way in, and I will not have my department appearing to be busy with nothing more than an afternoon tea social!”

Alex stiffened. Hunter shrugged laconically. “Camille, we’ll speak later,” he said, and strode toward the door. He opened it, ready to saunter out. But he paused.

Looking back, dark eyes raking quickly over the three of them, then landing on Camille, he said, “It appears that someone else is coming…for tea.”

“Who?” Alex demanded.

“Brian Stirling, the Earl of Carlyle,” Hunter said, his eyes resting on Camille. “We must, indeed, beware, for the monster comes this way!”

D
ESPITE THE HUSH
with which the others spoke, Brian could hear their startled and, he mused, somewhat
alarmed
whispers.

“Lord Stirling?” Sir John said, stunned.

“I thought he’d left.” The frantic comment came from Alex Mittleman.

“Well, he hasn’t. And I’m warning all of you…” That, from Sir John, who didn’t finish the sentence, but came out into the hall, speaking more forcefully and with what sounded like good cheer and welcome. “Brian! We are, indeed, honored! Haven’t seen you in forever, and today…well, we are honored!”

“Please, Sir John, you make me feel quite self-conscious,” he replied, taking the man’s hand.

“So…he never left!” Hunter mused softly, whispering into the ear of Camille Montgomery.

Brian saw her eyes. She was looking wary, thinking the same.

The little workroom where they had all gathered was apparently hers. She stood close to Hunter MacDonald. Alex hovered like a frightened rooster, determined somehow to defend his domain. Even Sir John had taken a stance that was defensive. Yet, Brian thought with a certain humor, he seemed ready—albeit reluctantly—to turn
his lovely young ingénue over to Brian if that was what was required to pull him back in. Interesting.

Hunter stepped forward. “Brian, you old devil! We’ve missed you.”

Again, the words were spoken with enthusiasm and apparent good cheer. They’d been in the military together and had known one another well. Indeed, they’d done a bit of pub hopping together. They might even have been called friends. Hunter liked to be thought of as a great world traveler, a tremendous adventurer, and he guarded his reputation as a ladies’ man. He enjoyed women—of all sizes, shapes and social strata.

Was it the natural distrust for a man that might well be a murderer that caused Brian to watch him with so great a distrust now? Or was it the way he stood by Camille? Brian couldn’t help the surge of curiosity that sprang forward in his mind, yet it was goaded by something far more instinctual. He wanted to wrench the woman from the man’s side. Was she aware of Hunter and his reputation, hard earned and well deserved.
Were they already lovers?

He’d known her but a night. And his distrust of her remained strong. After all, she had arrived at his house. And she worked at the museum. But was it simple distrust or something else? He had determined on his path. And she was part of it. But as he stood there, watching her, he realized the extraordinary depth of her beauty, the color of her hair, the crystal electricity in her eyes. Indeed, even in her work apron, with strands of hair escaping pins, she exuded a rare grace and dignity, even…sensuality.

He didn’t trust her proximity to Hunter. And worse, he just didn’t…like it.

“Lord Stirling!” Alex exclaimed, coming forward.

Though Alex might well appear hesitant and benign, he was no less dangerous.

“Lord Stirling!” he repeated, tentatively offering a hand.

Brian shook it. “Alex, old fellow. Good to see you.” He cast his eyes upon Camille. “And I see here the hardest worker among the sorry lot of you!” he teased.

Camille wasn’t at all flattered by his words. She forced a smile. “Lord Stirling. It is good to see your interest so well revived today.”

“I’ve spent too long shut away,” he said softly. “Amazing, isn’t it? Days, months go by. A year comes and goes. One wanders in a fog. And then circumstance brings a chance meeting. Imagine, an accident in front of my castle, and it turns out to be a man who has, as his ward, the one true object of beauty associated with the museum and its department of antiquities! It is as if I have been…reawakened!”

He almost laughed out loud. Even Sir John, willing to sacrifice the fair maiden in his pursuit of the past, took a step closer to Camille.

“Camille is, indeed, the truest form of beauty we’ve discovered here,” Hunter said, speaking carefully. “And truly cherished.”

He saw a strange flash in Camille’s eyes and knew her thoughts.
Hmm. Newly cherished. He knew this gentlemen’s club. She was lucky to have gotten the work, lucky to be here. Unless she had actually acquired the position through her beauty and charms rather than through her knowledge….

Anger filled him, and no matter how he told himself it was entirely unreasonable, there was no stopping it. The tension suddenly seemed palpable. He had no hold on the woman, other than threats and bribery. She might have been telling him the truth or she might have been lying boldly through her teeth. But his sudden proprietary feelings for her were nearly overwhelming. It was as if they
were siding off for a fierce game of rugby and she was the ball between them all.

Sir John suddenly cleared his throat. “Were you interested in seeing some of the work being done?”

“There’s time for that. I saw Lord Wimbly downstairs. We are meeting for lunch later. He is working with caterers down below right now, preparing for the fund-raiser.”

“Yes, he does like to take charge of this type of thing himself.”

“Little has changed, I see,” Brian said. He frowned. “I don’t see Aubrey.”

“Well, he’s working, of course!” Sir John said.

“Of course. Well, give him my regards.” Brian looked at Camille again. “So, Miss Montgomery. You’re working on finds that my parents sent to the museum.”

He didn’t think he had said the words as an accusation, but her eyes widened and hardened.

“Indeed. I believe Sir John invited you to see the work?”

“So nice to have the invitation,” he murmured, and he saw her flush as she realized that he needed none, if he chose to make demands. “I have promised Lord Wimbly to meet him by the new Perseus, so I will just have to come back. Thank you.”

He turned to leave and nearly smiled, well aware of the eyes focused on his back. “Miss Montgomery, my carriage will await,” he told her.

“Goodness!” came another voice, deep and rumbling. They all turned.

Lord Wimbly himself had arrived.

“My entire staff, standing about!” he said, yet he smiled. Lord Wimbly was a man of indeterminate age—he looked quite the same as he had when Brian was a child, with a thick head of snow-white hair, and direct, piercing gray eyes. He was tall, slender, and looked every inch a lord.

“My fault, I’m afraid,” Brian said. “Frightfully rude of me, being gone so long, then barging in and taking up so much time.”

“Ah, but you’ve barged and we’re so pleased!” Sir John said.

“Indeed,” Hunter murmured dryly. His dark eyes met Brian’s and there might have been a little friendly rivalry there. “High time you’re back with us,” he said. “You are the Earl of Carlyle, after all, and you’re incredibly important to our efforts.”

“Thank you.”

Lord Wimbly clapped him hard on the back. “Yes, yes, my boy. Injury be damned, though your choice of mask—”

“Lord Wimbly!” Sir John interrupted, aghast.

Brian laughed out loud. “I like my mask.”

“But, my boy, they whisper and call you the
beast!”
Lord Wimbly expounded.

There they were, the pack of them. Sir John, Hunter, Alex and now Lord Wimbly. The four who had been in Egypt, working with his parents. There to see much of the discovery. There to see his parents die. And now, seeming so pleased at his renewed interest. Offering enthusiasm, olive branches of understanding and friendship, all of them scholars. Yet, one of them was a murderer.

“I rather enjoy my fearsome reputation,” he said, staring at Camille. “But perhaps you’re all right. It’s high time I honor the memory of my parents by returning to their work.”

“Right, indeed!” Sir John said. “You must dust off the pain and solitude of the past and take your rightful place in society—at the head of a peerage that must see to knowledge…and education.”

“And the poor,” Camille murmured. Then her lashes fell quickly, hiding the brilliant, marbled, tiger coloring of her eyes.

They all stared at her, perplexed. Brian didn’t think that these fellows cared anything about the poverty ravishing London. They had all been given a rather sharp slap in the face during the recent Ripper murders, but they were scholars. The pursuit of knowledge, of ancient Egypt in particular, was their driving goal in life.

That, or the riches and glory such study could bring.

“Yes, yes, the state of our poor masses,” Lord Wimbly murmured. “Much to be done, eh, Brian?” Again, he slammed a hand against Brian’s back. “Well, my boy, shall we?” he asked.

He nodded, looking around the group, smiling beneath the mask. “Gentlemen, I shall see you soon. Camille, I shall be deeply graced to see you later this evening.”

“Of course, my deepest thanks,” she murmured. “With any luck, however, my guardian will be well enough to leave your ever-so-kind and gracious hospitality.”

“Ah, we mustn’t rush his recovery!” Brian said.

“You are really far too kind.”

“Not at all. As I said, Castle Carlyle is indeed graced by your presence. Lord Wimbly? At your leisure.”

“Sir John, I’ll be in bright and early tomorrow to inform you about the last of the arrangements. Ah, it should be a splendid affair! Simply splendid! All for a worthy cause, I say. I believe Lord Carnarvon will be joining us and that fellow he’s getting such an interest in…Carver, Carter, something of the like.”

“Carter. Howard Carter,” Alex supplied.

“Yes, yes, that’s the fellow! All manner of the tremendously supportive and dedicated will be among us, not to mention some society strictly interested in investing from afar. Now remember, we will be conducting some private tours. The place will be immaculate—right, Sir John?”

“Immaculate,” Sir John said a little blankly.

“Goodbye, then, and keep at it,” Lord Wimbly said.

Brian inclined his head and turned to follow Lord Wimbly. Again, he could feel the stares knifing into his back. He was well aware that tongues would wag the minute he and Lord Wimbly were out of range. Ah, to be a fly on the wall! Then again, that was something he was actually now managing to be rather well.

“
TO WORK,
the lot of you!” Sir John said, disallowing for conversation.

Camille was glad, anxious to retreat into her little work area without the fussy concern of either Hunter or Alex.

“Really, sir—” Alex began, but Sir John cut him off.

“Work! We’re nearly out of time. Alex, get on to the storage facility, we’ve packing everywhere. We’ll have to see about straightening all that without giving any threat to our artifacts. Hunter, if you’ll join me at my desk?”

Sir John was all business. Both Alex and Hunter looked at Camille, their eyes conveying their deepened worry and that they were loath to leave her. She gave them a brittle smile in return, then went back into her room and closed the door.

Her heart was racing. Someone had been in the storage vaults when she had gone down with Sir John. And she was certain whoever had been there had come to listen in on their conversation. Someone had been down there specifically to spy on the two of them.

Could Brian Stirling, the Beast of Carlyle, have been silently stalking the vaults earlier, listening as she and Sir John discussed the death of his parents?

She turned to her table, to her work, and her skin began to crawl.
There, the curse!

She didn’t believe in curses, but knew that men could
be cursed with envy and greed. And if that was the case, maybe the earl had every right to be seeking out that evil.

She closed her eyes, her thoughts still running rampant. No, he had to be mad. She thought of the men in the circle of friends—or at least professional acquaintances—that had just come together. Lord Wimbly? Good heavens, no! Sir John? Never. Hunter? He was a charming womanizer, but a murderer? Certainly not! And Alex, gentle Alex…

It was all too insane. With irritation, she went back to work. The beliefs of the ancient Egyptians were beginning to appear far more normal and rational than anything she had heard that morning from learned men of the age of enlightenment!

T
RISTAN
M
ONTGOMERY AWOKE
in a spacious—no, sumptuous!—bed in Carlyle Castle. The bed was big and soft, the sheets were pure heaven, and his blankets were fine and warm.

Then a little shiver went through him when he remembered that they were guests of that
monster.
And the man was an ogre, no mistake about it, grilling Tristan as if they were back in the days of the Spanish Inquisition. If the earl so wanted it, Tristan could rot in prison for all the wretched days of his life to remain!

There was a tap on his door.

“Aye?” he said tentatively.

The door opened. The woman was there, the one who seemed to actually be in charge of the household, though she deferred to the Earl of Carlyle with every word.

Tristan pulled his covers a bit more tightly about himself, wondering why she was capable of making him feel so uncomfortable. Ashamed! Well, perhaps he should have been ashamed. But there had been too many years when
he’d had to make his way with the cleverness of his mind alone. And helping himself to a wee bit of another man’s riches here and there, where possible. He wasn’t entirely selfish or evil with his ill-gotten gains! Once he’d discovered Camille crying over her mother’s body, he’d had a child to raise. There was Ralph to take care of. And too many times, a tired out, pathetic doxy in the streets—usually one so ugly and toothless he couldn’t even imagine the most rotten old bugger enjoying a poke from the back—had been about to try her luck when the old Ripper had been at work. Tristan had seen to it to find the old whore a few pence doss money. So he was actually something of a regular old Robin Hood, stealing from the rich, giving to the poor. He just wasn’t receiving the same appreciation. No, not in the least!

“Mr. Montgomery,” the woman said smoothly. Prior, that was her name. She moved with a whisper of silk and a whiff of perfume, always stately, and always with those eyes that looked upon him as if he were…well, worse than he should be!

“Aye?” he asked, covers now beneath his chin.

“How are you feeling?”